


put your head on my shoulder (you and I will fall in love)

by loudamy



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: B99 Fall 2019 Fic Exchange, F/M, Get together fic, and the squad being autumnal together, some general tipsiness, this is just...fluff and me pretending I know what americans do at fall festivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudamy/pseuds/loudamy
Summary: (‘Aaaaaaaaaamy. Amy Santiago. Amy!’She’s never, ever, been happier to hear Jake Peralta’s voice.)The squad visits the local fall festival; Jake and Amy encounter an endless corn maze, too much apple cider, and overdue confessions.





	put your head on my shoulder (you and I will fall in love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [letsperaltiago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsperaltiago/gifts).

> This was written for @letsperaltiago over at tumblr for the B99 2019 Fall Fic Exchange!! I used the following prompts: Amy wearing Jake's hoodie for the first time // the squad visits the local fall festival and Amy gets lost in the corn maze, Jake comes to find her.  
Thank you for giving me a reason for procrastinating my dissertation research & I sincerely hope you like this.

It was Charles’s idea. _Of course _it was.

‘We didn’t get a squad thanksgiving this year.’ he’d wheedled; Holt’s brow had gently creased. ‘The precinct going into lockdown and us all getting trapped there for three hours doesn’t count.’

(‘Feels like it counted,’ Rosa had muttered.)

‘Yes, Boyle has a point.’ Holt had said, and the inflection in his otherwise deadpan tone had given them all pause. ‘What do you suggest, detective?’

‘Captain, _nooo_,’ Gina had whined, ‘why would you ask Charles to elaborate on that, ever? As if he’s not about to force us all to feed each-other maggot cheese at the puppet museum or something equally horrifying?’

‘Gina. Casu marzu is a _delicacy_-’

‘_Charles_. You are no longer invited to suggest things for us to do as a group. Please go home and try again tomorrow.’

It was then that Boyle’s compact little chest had swelled, he’d batted away Gina’s barb with a sharp jut of the chin, and said, ‘But what I was actually going to say, was that there’s a fall festival at Brooklyn Bridge Park this weekend and I think we should go. It’ll be like the beach house again! But without the awkward hot-tub stuff.’

Alright, so admittedly, Amy had initially seen the allure of embracing the onset of autumn with her colleagues.

Sure, she’d miss the ‘Oxford Comma: The Antidote To Grammatical Rigor Mortis’ seminar that she’d spent three weeks on the waiting list for, but that was dust in the wind compared to the opportunity to cosy up to Holt and take their mentorship to the next level.

And maybe the bashful half-smile Jake had given at the notion had twisted her arm a little bit. He always spends Thanksgiving alone; for all his bravado on the matter, Amy knows he cherishes the time the squad share together as friends, whether it be shenanigans in the bullpen or elsewhere.

But now, crammed into the backseat of Terry’s minivan, with Scully on her right, obnoxiously snoring like a jackhammer and completely oblivious to the halo of crusted peanut butter around his mouth, and the raucous chorus of Jake and Charles’ singing (‘Glenda, I love you, you are my number one pick!’), Amy finally understands what hell is.

‘Hey Sarge, are we nearly there yet?’ Hitchcock says. ‘I’ve run out of data and I was only halfway through the movie I was watching. Wink wink.’

Amidst the cacophony of disgusted noises, Terry answers through gritted teeth, ‘No! Hitchcock! You’ve asked that eight times in the last ten minutes. I’ll _tell you _when we’re nearly there!’

‘Why isn’t Diaz with us?’ says Scully groggily, having blinked himself awake.

‘Because she’s the real detective-slash-genius on this squad and had the sense to get Marcus to drive her in lieu of being packed in here like a sardine.’ Amy says, with a wistful sigh.

‘You forget Captain Holt and Kevin are with them as well.’ says Terry, shaking his head. ‘Listening to those four trying to make small-talk is nearly as painful as muscle fatigue after a break from the gym. Terry hates missing leg day.’

‘Aw, c’mon, Amy, it’s not that bad.’ says Jake, grinning from the backseat. ‘You got to make colour-coded schedules for us, that’s the Santiago equivalent of solving five felonies in a week.’

‘You’ve already used yours to make a paper airplane.’ says Amy, curtly. ‘Which you threw into the windscreen and managed to nick Scully with.’

‘I’m supposed to go to the emergency room straight away if I start bleeding,’ says Scully, perking up. ‘I’m a haemophiliac.’

‘Damn it! Does anyone have any seltzer? I spilled taramasalata down my shirt.’

‘Here, use this.’ Gina tosses a dog-eared wad of paper over to Charles, who begins dabbing erratically at his damp shirt.

‘Gina, was that my itinerary?’ says Amy, grimacing because she already knows the answer.

‘Oh, is that what that was? I thought it was some very sad person’s diary…’

Amy sits back, clamps her eyes shut, and sits on her fingers to resist the urge to stress-braid. In the background, Scully exhales a cloud of noxious digestion fumes and Hitchcock starts unbuttoning his shirt.

x

They traipse into the park in an unruly cluster, and Amy’s mood immediately lifts as the haze of reds, golds and oranges bleed into sight, complemented by the bite of autumn spices that linger in the cool air.

The throng of people thins a little as they step forward, revealing clumsy rows of stalls, selling or offering everything from toffee-apples to pie-eating competitions. The thread of yellowing trees weaves in and out of the park, and there’s something soothing about the distant crisping of foliage.

‘Okay, so Santiago’s highly-specific schedule has us at stall three first for pumpkin carving.’ says Jake, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

‘You memorised the plan?’ Amy says incredulously.

‘Yeah, imagine the ensuing bloodbath if we didn’t follow your meticulously planned schedule. It’d be carnage, Amy, carnage.’ says Jake, but he’s smiling, the kind that of smile that can reach places the sun can’t, and she’s inexplicably touched.

‘Yeaaaah, no. I’ve got plans for today and none of them involve any nerdy crap. Sorry Ames, but there’s a psychic stand over there and I’ve been waiting to find out which of Beyoncé’s tours Dancy Reagan is gonna choreograph for like, months.’ Gina drawls, and before any of them can protest, she’s bobbed out of sight, leaving behind only the faint trace of something Dina Lohan.

‘I was kinda hoping to get to the pumpkin yoghurt stand before it all goes. Terry loves organic dairy.’ the sergeant twangs his suspenders sheepishly, and Amy sighs and waves him off.

‘_I _wouldn’t abandon you.’ Charles says, eyes bugging in tandem with his enthusiasm. ‘I’m super excited to get through all the things on your list, Amy, I’ve got-’

‘Charles. It’s fine.’ Jake eyes Amy, who shrugs noncommittally. ‘You can go do your elaborate foodie tour.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ Charles huffs, whipping a notepad and pen out of nowhere and palming his tongue experimentally. ‘There’s one hundred and thirty-three food stalls here and I just _know _the saffron-infused locusts will be selling like hot-cakes.’

He squeaks around on his heel, the balls of his feet barely dusting the ground as he vaults off, just as Jake says, contemplatively, ‘Yeah…no?’

‘Well, we’re free, Amy.’ Scully says cheerily, gesturing to himself and a nodding Hitchcock (whom Amy’s about 97% sure doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to). Scully’s fingers are coated in cookie crumbs and there are three buttons missing on Hitchcock’s shirt and the scent of stale cheese lingers indistinctly about them.

‘Uh, you know what? That’s okay.’ says Amy, with a strained smile, at the same time as Jake goes, ‘I think they’re doing an all-you-can-eat cinnamon doughnuts buffet somewhere over there, guys.’

‘Say no more.’ Scully stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sports coat and twirls cloddishly on the spot. ‘Brought my coat with the most storage space for just this reason!’

So that’s Hitchcock and Scully gone.

Leaving Jake and Amy.

Alone.

Amy coughs and Jake scuffs his right shoe into the earth, muddying the tip. It shouldn’t be awkward, and ordinarily it wouldn’t be, but Amy’s suddenly very viscerally aware that this is the first time she’s been alone with Jake in a non-work situation since the worst double-date in the history of time back in Neustadter.

They haven’t talked about it, and even though he and Sophia called it quits months ago now, it never feels like the right time to broach the subject.

‘Sooooo…pumpkin carving?’ says Jake, and he fixes her with dark, liquid eyes, rich like the first sip of an espresso, and when the light finds them just right, threaded with gold.

It’s okay for her to have these thoughts; she’s reconciled herself to them, now, whether as innocuous as when she’s watching Magnum P.I. and is suddenly struck with a marvellous new insight into their case and toys with texting Jake, imagining the way he might excitedly text back, spewing typos like lava because he’s just as enraptured with the theory as she is –

Or when they’re not quite so innocuous; his fingers might skirt hers as they both go for the elevator button and she fidgets against the little shocks that bite through her at the sensation, the reminder that there’s something lingering in the air between them.

Sometimes it flutters there, light and effervescent in her stomach, when he locks her with that lazy smile, and sometimes it’s merely a fleeting glance from across the bar or the way his hair curls at his forehead, like a vine across those dark eyes, but it _sears _her, it’s hot and heady and lodges her heart in her throat.

‘Uh…Amy?’

‘What? I wasn’t – no! Um…never mind!’

The words slip off her strangled tongue before she has the foresight to stop them, but she supposes it’s marginally better than, ‘No, Jake, I was not having inappropriate thoughts about you, because we are professional police colleagues’.

‘Okay, weirdo,’ Jake says after a pause, and for a second Amy thinks he’s seen right through her but then his face twists into that familiar smirk.

‘Have you been at the apple cider already? Should I be expecting you to start doing the robot at some point? ‘Cause I need to clear some storage on my phone if so.’

And there it is. Always, always, dancing the line between easy banter between friends and easier flirting. Why do they always get stuck, blurring this line? Why are they both so tentative of whatever unknown territory lies beyond it?

‘Bet I can carve a better pumpkin than you,’ she says, instead.

Jake’s eyes spark; Amy’s heart shudders in her chest. She feels the warm pink hue colour her cheeks, but Jake’s already halfway to the pumpkin stall, midway through gloating about his impending victory, so she follows him without another word.

x

‘Okay, before I show you mine, I want you to know it’s like, sixty nine percent ironic, forty percent awesome.’

‘That doesn’t add up – never mind. Just be prepared to get _smoked_, Peralta.’

‘On three?’

‘Okay. Three…’

‘…two…’

‘…one!’

Jake spins on his heel and brandishes his pumpkin in a grossly theatrical manner, mouth agape, eyes wide. It’s a pumpkin inside a pumpkin inside a pumpkin; he’s hacked roughly at the orange flesh leaving the smiles more akin to grimaces, but on the whole, not a bad effort at all.

But it’s got nothing on hers.

‘I call it – _pumpkinception_.’ says Jake proudly, and his grin broadens tenfold when he sees Amy’s smiling.

‘Let’s see yours then.’ he says, hands migrating to his hips, eyebrow cocked, mouth poised provocatively.

‘Just promise you won’t be a sore loser,’ says Amy, folding her arms.

‘I’m an extremely sore loser and you know this already.’ says Jake. ‘Now, gimme.’

Amy steps aside and Jake gawps; his face floods with disbelief, indignation, and finally settles into awe. He’s impressed, and she revels in the little thrill that pulses through her heart at the thought.

‘You’re forgetting I grew up with seven extremely competitive brothers.’ says Amy idly. ‘Every year we just got more and more out-of-hand trying to carve the best pumpkin until one year Luis accidentally sliced off the tip of Manny’s thumb and my mom banned all future competitions.’

‘That is so cool.’ Jake breathes. Then, off her look, ‘I mean, very distressing and emotionally scarring for your family…!’

‘Eh. I won that year.’ says Amy, and the last thing she sees before brushing very deliberately past him is his look of flustered admiration in her wake.

x

Later, when Charles’ palate has been exhausted, and Rosa and Marcus have sloped off somewhere to be mushy and romantic (or, more likely, make out against a tree), and Gina’s run out of Instagram filters to use, the squad manages a hasty rendezvous by a coffee cart.

‘Hey, Amy, look at this, they’ve those froofy frappuccinos you like so much in pumpkin spice – wait,’ Jake pauses and peers around, his face falling when he fails to spot her. ‘Where’s Santiago? She was right next to me like five seconds ago.’

‘Ooh, uh, stuck in traffic. Paying next year’s taxes. Watching paint dry.’ offers Gina.

Jake, ignoring her, turns to Charles, who shakes his head. ‘Haven’t seen her in ages. But by all means, go find her, Jakey. Be her knight in shining armour. Profess your profound love for her with the first sweet, frothy beginnings of a blended beverage-’

‘Alright, I’m gonna go find her.’ Jake interrupts hastily, planting a hand on his hip. ‘Text me if you see her before I get back.’

He scans their immediate surroundings with a furrowed brow, mutters something incoherent under his breath, and takes off in the direction of the blackberry bushes, footfalls coughing a cloud of red dust.

‘Are we really trusting Jake to go find her?’ Terry says, a frown dimpling his forehead. ‘His sense of direction is only so-so.’

‘I agree, it would be far more effective to split the festival into quadrants, form groups and each group search one zone.’ says Holt, abruptly joining their circle, hands intertwined neatly with Kevin’s. ‘But Peralta has already left in a rush, so it seems futile now to do so.’

‘Right.’ Terry says, in a woefully unconvincing tone.

‘We should just leave them be.’ says Charles dreamily.

He blinks himself out of his stupor to see Holt, Kevin, and Gina exchanging a wad of dollar bills.

x

Like things so often do, everything had spiralled from relative normalcy to disaster in a matter of seconds.

One second, she and Jake are trailing behind the squad, loosely picking at chunky handmade jewellery and assorted crafts, her laughing as he pulls on a turkey hat (‘Only twelve dollars! I’m gonna get it!’ ‘It’s _awful_, Jake.’), him tangibly brightening in response…

The next, she’s surrounded by a haze of corn, treading the same lonely path thirty times over. Her lipstick is dry and cracked about her mouth in the low wind, her eyes tearing a little through the bitter gust (and the prospect of dying in this corn maze, all alone and not yet having demoted her brother David’s portrait to the piano).

And of course, Amy Santiago is perpetually cold, so why should today be any exception? Her fingers are stiffly curled and white at the tips, her hair wrapped miserably around her hollowed cheeks, and the thin coat she’s wearing is doing little to keep out the chill.

She’d literally lagged behind for a moment, having spotted a scarf perfect for her mother’s birthday present, and by the time she’d paid and patted the parcel down neatly in her handbag, Jake and the others had been swallowed by the crowds.

And somehow, she’s ended up circling this stupid corn maze for the last twenty minutes. Every turn she makes seems to lead her into another wheat cluster, thicker and taller than the last.

And it’s so cold that her phone is refusing to turn on.

‘Come on! No!’ Amy moans, banging her fist against the phone screen.

So far, she’s managed to keep the claustrophobia at bay through a combination of practiced breathing exercises and believing that the nine-nine will find her – she knows they won’t leave without her – unless, oh God, they assume she’s hitched a ride back with Rosa and Holt and she ends up stuck in this maze forever –

‘Aaaaaaaaaamy. Amy Santiago. _Amy!’_

She doesn’t care that he’s being purposely shrill.

She doesn’t care that he’s probably going to tease her about getting lost in a damn corn maze for the next ten years.

She doesn’t even care that she’s never looked more bedraggled in her life.

She’s never, ever, been happier to hear Jake Peralta’s voice.

‘I’m over here!’ she says, fisting through handfuls of corn in search of a familiar leather jacket and shock of curls. ‘Jake?’

‘There you are.’

She spins, hand automatically flying to her hip where she normally keeps her gun, and he’s standing behind her, grinning (predictably) but there’s an undeniable sense of relief in the way his shoulders slump, concern in the way his jaw is tensed.

He reaches her in three long strides.

‘Say, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’ says Jake, and smiles when she snorts, pulling her dead phone out of her pocket and wafting it in his face.

‘What are you doing in here?’ he asks. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I even trawled back to that stand with the creepy lady with the scarves-’

‘You came looking for me.’ Amy says, slowly. Jake stops short, eyes roving her face. He looks like he’s thinking hard, and she knows why.

He’s deciding how closely to toe that line.

‘Well, yeah.’ he says eventually. ‘You’re my partner.’

The cold is biting, but Amy feels a swell of affection warming her from the inside.

‘C’mon,’ Jake says. ‘I reckon I saw a shortcut out of here.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ says Amy. ‘Let’s just go back the way you came. We don’t want to end up even more lost in here.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith.’ says Jake, shaking his head mockingly. ‘I’ll get us out of here in the next ten minutes, and that’s a Peralta Guarantee.’

x

‘So, Santiago. Lost. What happened to the laminated map and the eight hundred dollar compass?’

‘It wasn’t eight hundred – ugh, never mind. I was trying to find everyone and I somehow ended up here and I couldn’t find my way back. _Don’t _laugh.’ she warns him, prodding him in the shoulder.

He catches her finger, laughing, and instantly recoils. ‘You’re freezing, Amy.’

‘Yeah, and this shortcut of yours isn’t proving to be very short.’

‘You know, that piece of corn looks familiar. It kind of looks like the back of Barack Obama’s head.’

‘_Jake – _wait, hey, it actually does!’

They laugh, until suddenly it really isn’t funny anymore, because the reality of the situation hits Amy like a freight train: they’ve been walking past the same patch of corn for about half an hour now. She doesn’t know what’s worse: that, or the fact that neither of them noticed, because they were too busy chatting and joking around.

‘You don’t know the way out of here, do you?’ she accuses.

Jake pulls a face. ‘Of course I do. It’s a left here, and then a right past that bit of corn, and then – yeah okay, we are one hundred percent definitely maybe kind of lost.’

‘Call the sarge.’ says Amy, blowing on her hands in a feeble attempt to get the blood flowing again.

‘Uh…’ Jake gives her a smile that’s far too toothy, and her heart sinks. ‘If hypothetically I was playing Kwazy Kupcakes on the ride over here and my battery died, how bad would that be on a scale of one to ten?’

Amy buries her face in her poor, cold hands.

‘We might as well keep walking. We’ll find a way out.’

Amy doesn’t stir.

‘Amy.’ his voice is softer now, crooning almost. ‘Hey, it’ll be okay. We’re not gonna be in here forever. Charles would never let that happen, for one thing.’

She feels his hands, firm and impossibly warm, gently peel her fingers away from her face. ‘You’re even colder than you were before, if that’s possible. Here.’

He shrugs off his leather jacket, then wriggles out of the red hoodie underneath, before draping it over her shoulders.

‘No, that’s okay-’ says Amy, both touched and alarmed by the intimacy of the gesture.

Jake looks at her. ‘Just take it, Amy, ‘cause if you die of hypothermia out here _I’m _gonna get stuck with all the paperwork, and we both know I’ll make a thousand mistakes and end up changing your marital status or something.’

Amy smiles and relents, stuffing her arms through the sleeves of the hoodie before shoving her coat back on top. Instantly, she shivers a little at the resounding warmth – and if she’s being totally honest, the feeling of being wrapped in _Jake’s _hoodie. She doesn’t even need to bury her nose in the collar to enjoy the smell of him, mildly sweet and woody.

She can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to really be entangled in Jake’s arms.

When she looks back at him, he’s watching her with a softness to his gaze; not unfamiliar, he’s been looking at her this way for months now, but it doesn’t fail to make her heart flutter, her breathing quicken, her cheeks crest with a tell-tale flush.

‘Thanks,’ she says, and he nods, in that way she recognises as his ‘I-don’t-care-but-really-I-do-a-lot’ way.

‘You’re not having my jacket though.’ he says, slipping it back on. ‘I don’t care how cold you are.’

He’s only trying to diffuse the tension, and it works, because she shakes her head, smiling, but for a second she can’t help but wonder what might happen if they didn’t try to shake the tension. If they just let it simmer.

‘I got another foolproof way to warm us up.’ says Jake, and he delves into his jacket pocket and produces a hipflask. ‘Apple cider.’

He tosses a few mouthfuls back, before offering it to her. She takes it, swigs, and winces as the liquid burns down her throat.

‘That’s the weakest cider I’ve ever had.’ says Amy, as Jake wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Yeah,’ Jake agrees. ‘Imagine anyone getting buzzed off of that.’

x

‘Hey! Can I ask you a dumb question?’ Jake booms, managing to keep the slur out of his voice until the end of the sentence.

‘Better than anyone else I know.’ Amy says, pausing midway through her air-guitar number. Damn, that cider is good stuff. She’s on fire right now.

‘Hurtful!’ says Jake. ‘Just for that, I’m not letting you wear my turkey hat.’ he pulls it out from seemingly nowhere and jams it on his head. It might be the haze of the alcohol corrupting her, but he looks adorable, even wearing a tacky fabric turkey.

‘That’s okay.’ says Amy, far too loudly.

Jake shrugs at her before he promptly trips over a clump of grass and sprawls on the floor, blinking rapidly. ‘Whoa – whoa hey.’ he stares up at Amy. ‘Are you okay?’

x

‘Jake, we’ve been walking for an hour now.’ Amy groans, stooping to rub her ankle, which is stubbornly red from the cold.

‘Yeah, and we’re out of cider.’ Jake complains.

‘And I’m back to feeling spacey.’ says Amy, pouting.

‘It’s a pity. Drunk Santiago is always a treat.’ says Jake, smirking.

‘Drunk Peralta, meanwhile, is unpredictable.’

‘Drunk Jake says things he shouldn’t.’ Jake says, and he sounds so distant that she draws closer to him, catching his eyes, which are flecked with gold under the setting sun.

And just like that, she decides to take the plunge. It isn’t liquid courage, or boredom, or any other superficial reason spurring her on. It’s the way he’s staring at her, soft and a little bit yearning, and yeah, maybe sad in the mellow afternoon light.

But it’s the way he’s been looking at her over his computer monitor for months, now; the way his voice is always a little scratchy when he strolls into the precinct late and greets her. It’s the way he came looking for her when she was alone in this maze and the way he knows she’s always bloody cold and gave her his hoodie without a second thought and will switch from teasing to comfort at the slightest tremor of her lip.

It’s the way they’ve spent the entire day together, laughing and joking and gently poking at one another in the easy, synchronised way they’ve built up since her very first day at the nine-nine. It’s the way that she lights up in his company, forgets to worry about trivial things, laughs with reckless abandon.

She doesn’t want this to be a one-off. She doesn’t want to go back to work on Monday and pretend they’re just good friends.

She doesn’t want to waste any more time.

‘Listen, Jake.’

He considers her.

‘You weren’t…you weren’t drunk, were you? You know, when you…when we spoke before you went undercover.’

‘What?’ Jake splutters. ‘_No_. God, no. Amy…I meant every word of what I said.’ he swallows, hard. Pauses. ‘_Mean _every word.’

He looks at her meaningfully, then. Her breath hitches in her throat. His eyes flicker down to her lips, but she understands. He won’t make the move, not when he’s not entirely sure it’s what she wants.

So she tells him, in the best way that she can; by tugging him into her space and leaning in, and swallowing the question on his lips with her own.

He’s momentarily stunned, but there’s a tangible switch that flicks in his head and then his hands are splayed against her back, tightening at the dip of her waist, and he’s kissing her back. She snatches fistfuls of his jacket to pull him closer, and it’s jarringly cool to touch against the warmth radiating from every spot his hands rove.

His kiss is hungry and his chapped lips graze her jaw, the edge of her mouth, then back to her lips, coaxing her tongue into his own mouth. Every press of his lips stings vaguely of cider; there’s a tang to the taste of him, warm and sweet and sharp in her bloodstream.

They’re both breathing heavily when they break apart; Jake’s lips are invitingly pink and swollen, his chest heaving beneath his jacket, his pupils large and stark against the irises.

She’s thinking of what to say, how to tell him what that meant to her, when they hear Charles hysterically screaming Jake’s name from only yards away.

‘You better take this back.’ she says, suddenly inspired, gesturing to his hoodie. ‘Everyone will freak out. Well, Boyle will freak out.’

Jake raises an eyebrow, smiling again. That damn smile. ‘Nah. Keep it.’

It’s more than that, and both of them know it. It’s a question and an answer, a burgeoning commitment, a final farewell to dancing that blurry line. Jake reaches out and takes her hand, and the determined look in his eyes tells her all she needs to know.

They carefully break apart when Charles rounds the corner moments later, heading straight for Jake with his arms outstretched, closely followed by Terry, Rosa and Captain Holt.

The moment isn’t lost, though; Amy thinks maybe it’s just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> hello I watched tli's popstar never stop never stopping last week and it changed my life. if you haven't already watched it just know that 'sick glenda' is emmy worthy.
> 
> Comments & kudos always appreciated <3
> 
> always happy to be yelled at about this show, and especially these two, over on tumblr @vic-kovac


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